


Like a thunderstorm on a sunny day

by cedarrapidsgirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Self Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 09:34:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/620677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cedarrapidsgirl/pseuds/cedarrapidsgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock comes home to find John hasn't been out of bed all day. Is he sick?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like a thunderstorm on a sunny day

Sherlock Holmes went up the stairs to 221B. He’d spent a productive morning in the morgue burning various parts of a body with a blowtorch to have a reference for burn marks on a body post postmortem. Molly had shooed him out around noon, saying she had to find something vegetarian for lunch now, and so Sherlock headed back to the flat. 

It was quiet in the flat when Sherlock hung up his coat and scarf. Too quiet. It was after 12:30 now, well, almost 1 actually, when Sherlock looked around and realized that nothing had been changed since he left the place some 6 hours earlier. It was John’s day off, and while Sherlock would not fault John for having a lie in, not being up and about by 1 pm was very unusual indeed. 

Was John home? Yes, he was. His coat was still on the hook he’d placed it on last night, the left pocket still slightly inside out from when he pulled out his mobile and threw it on the kitchen table. And the kitchen area was still in the same state as when he left. If John had gotten up he’d have made himself some tea, and the kettle would have been moved, and John’s mug would be in the sink, not on the end table, and he may have tidied up some as he went, no doubt muttering his displeasure every step of the way. So the final conclusion, John was home, and hadn’t been downstairs yet. In his room then. 

Sherlock made his way up the stairs to John’s room. The door was ajar. Sherlock pushed it open and seen a lump of covers on the bed. He stopped in the doorway. John was lying on his side, his back to the door. Rise, Fall. Rise. Fall. Sherlock watched John’s regular breathing. Maybe he was sick. More observations. In. Out. In. Out. But wait, the respiration were now faster. So he’s not sleeping currently, but still may not be well. Sherlock moved closer to get a better look and what he saw stopped him in his tracks. 

John’s gun, lying out in the open on the bedside table. Normally John kept his handgun carefully hidden, (probably more so for Sherlock’s benefit as well as John’s) and Sherlock could count on one hand the number of times John had it out from his doing. Usually Sherlock stole it and used it, or at the very least, threatened people with it. Sherlock crept closer to the table to get a better look at it and John when he was stopped short again. It was a smell this time. Blood. 

Sherlock panicked and stripped the covers off the John shaped lump on the bed, only to meet resistance when John moved suddenly, pulling the covers over himself again to try to retain some shred of dignity. Sherlock may have yelped very unconventionally as John “hmph”ed as he turned his back to Sherlock again. 

“John? John? Are you alright?” Sherlock shook John none too gently, and John shook himself trying to get Sherlock off of him. John raises the covers over his head and tries to ignore Sherlock. Which was of course, an exercise in futility because Sherlock is nothing if not insistent. Sherlock went over to the other side of the bed and got close to John’s face. “John! Are you alright? Answer me!” 

John sighed deeply and uncovered his head. “I’ll be fine, Sherlock. Please, just right now, leave me alone for a while. I just want to be alone.” Of course, that wasn’t enough for Sherlock. As soon as he got a glimpse at John he started deducing, thankfully in his head for a change. John groaned and tried to roll away from Sherlock when John felt an intrusion under the covers. It was his turn to yell as Sherlock dug his hand under the mound of blankets and brushed against his bare side, but the detective settled for his left hand and unearthed it and pulled it out, palm up and started inspecting it. John rolled his eyes and as he settled on his back he tried not to think about the fact that Sherlock was molesting his hand in his bed, while he was only wearing his pants. 

“You're hurt, John. You have multiple cuts on your hand, dried with blood. You used your pillowcase to try and stop the bleeding, but you didn't go downstairs to take care of it.  The question is, why?” Sherlock dropped John’s hand and stood. John sighed again and stayed where he was, staring at the ceiling. Sherlock seemed to not notice John’s put out expression as he stood by the bed, thinking. Then something caught his eye. He went over to the wall opposite John’s bed and carefully touched a shard of glass stuck in the wall. On the floor was a shattered glass, pieces glinting in what little of the afternoon sun made it through the tightly closed curtains. 

John took the opportunity while Sherlock’s back was turned to roll over to the other side and pull the covers up over himself again. When he opened his eyes he was facing the bedside table, where his gun was still sitting. He closed his eyes quickly and rubbed his face with his hand. Sherlock wasn’t done with the questions, however. “Why, John? Why did you throw your glass against the wall?”  


John tried not to sigh as he gave up trying to wait out Sherlock Holmes. That wasn't going to happen. He still didn't face Sherlock however as he finally spoke. “Because I needed to.” 

Sherlock stopped in the middle of some mental note taking or whatever he was doing and stared at John. He came over and loomed over John, still staring at him, and John had to fight the impulse to hide under the covers again. He hated when Sherlock stared at him, you never knew if it was going to be a bit not good, or REALLY not good. At any rate, it was better just to get it over with. 

“You _needed_ to? No, John, no. You didn't need to. You _need_ to eat. You _need_ to sleep. You _need_ shelter. You don't _need_ to throw glassware. What on earth were you thinking? You could have severely hurt yourself!” Sherlock sat down on the edge of the bed looking angry and yet worried at the same time. 

“So? Maybe that was the point. Maybe I wanted to hurt myself.” John said as he took his arms out of the covers and sat up, pushing himself up to lean against the headboard. Sherlock just stared at him. Great. The staring again. John folded his arms over his chest and stared back at Sherlock. “What's the matter? The great consulting detective has nothing to say, for a change? You have no great theory on why I felt compelled to break a glass in my hand and then throw it at the wall?” Still no words, although Sherlock finally dropped his gaze from John's face and back to his hurt hand, which was still on his upper arm. 

John dropped his hands to his lap, suddenly feeling very exposed even though the most private parts of him were still under the blankets. He put his injured hand under the covers as an uncomfortable silence fell over the room. John looked away and stared at the armoire to deter from Sherlock's scrutiny and tried to think of what to possibly say or do next. 

John jumped when a hand found its way under the blankets and gently covered John's injured one. He still couldn't look Sherlock in the eye, however. It seemed that Sherlock could still read minds, with the detective saying what the doctor couldn't get out himself. “It was either the glass or the gun.” Just a statement, with no emotion behind it, as if it were read from a patient chart or a line from a book. 

It couldn't be emotionless to John, who had to take several deep breaths before he could answer. “Yes.” It was all he could get out without breaking down completely. And he couldn't break down. Not now. Not with Sherlock here. 

Slowly, carefully, John felt Sherlock's hand leave him, and then a firm pressure on both his shoulders. John turned to face his flatmate, as Sherlock was pushing him back down to a lying position, on his left side facing the window. John was emotionally drained, and complied with Sherlock. He closed his eyes as his head rested on the pillow with his back to Sherlock, still sitting on the bed. Then he felt the bed shift as Sherlock pulled back the covers and spooned up behind him, fully clothed except for his shoes. John just choked back a sob as Sherlock puts his arm over John's chest and pulled him close. They laid there together and they both finally succumbed to some much needed sleep. As John drifted off, safe in Sherlock's arms, he thought maybe later there would be a discussion of feelings, but for right now, this was fine. It was all fine.

**Author's Note:**

> So, basically, John is me. I suffer from depression, and while I don't have access to a firearm, or hurt myself on glassware, the rest of John's behavior is mine. I don't want to do anything, and tend to hide under the covers unless absolutely necessary. I wanted to write this somewhat as an outlet for my feelings, and also because writing isn't always about porn and fluff. There could possibly be another chapter/follow up to this, I didn't get all I wanted to say out with this fic, but this ending seems right for now. So, yeah.


End file.
